


Cinnamon Guinness

by Mackem



Series: Imaginary Advent Calendar 2012 [5]
Category: British Comedian RPF
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-05
Updated: 2012-12-05
Packaged: 2017-11-20 09:52:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mackem/pseuds/Mackem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stew has Rich over for a Christmas catch-up. Their choice of beverage is misguided.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cinnamon Guinness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dairyme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dairyme/gifts).



> Every year, I write what I call my Imaginary Advent Calendar, where each day until December 25th I open another day of an advent calendar that doesn’t exist and write what I picture various people or characters in different shows/fandoms/books in a holidays context. This year I’ve challenged myself to write a ficlet for every day. See Vicky panic! They’ll be in various different fandoms and pairings, and won’t be particularly long (except the ones that eat my brain). Enjoy! X!

They’re officially middle aged now. It’s officially official. They’re both married, Stew’s got kids - they can no longer deny it. Middle age is not looming, but has loomed. They’re in it.

“Are you aware you’re making noises?” Stew asks, his eyes laughing at him. “I won’t say ‘talking’ because that might imply there’s some thought going into those words.”

“Can’t say I was,” Richard laughs in return. “It’s true, though, isn’t it? We’re middle aged.”

“Yeah.”

“Old, even! Why resort to euphemisms? We all know ‘middle aged’ really means ‘old’, don’t we.”

“Not elderly, though,” Stewart muses, around a glass of mulled Guinness. It tastes horrible, but they made it, so they’re drinking it. Because they’re old and have responsibilities.

Richard’s not sure he was ready to have responsibilities in regards to a pan of disgusting heated stout with a cinnamon stick bobbing forlornly in it, but this situation is sink or swim, and he’s damn well strapping on the arm bands.

Richard _might_ be a bit drunk. He screws his eyes shut and tries to catch up. “What?”

“We’re not elderly. ‘Old’ and ‘elderly’, whilst synonyms -”

“- nobody says ‘whilst’ in casual conversation -”

“- are not exactly interchangeable. I’m old. You’re old. My mum’s elderly. She’s also old, but _we’re_ not elderly.”

“I’m glad we’ve finally sorted this issue out,” Rich agrees, and they raise their glasses and toast to this through a warm haze of alcohol. 

Silence falls for awhile, well-worn and comfortable. Stewart had set a CD playing when Richard had arrived, but it had played out long ago. He can’t remember which band it was, but it had sounded all right. A nice enough counterpart to the absolute bollocks they were talking together. 

He shifts, and his foot brushes the bag of presents Stew handed over earlier. They’ll be going under the tree, when Richard eventually heads home. The bag he had delivered himself, with a genial, “Ho ho ho, Santa is dead and I looted his wrinkled sack,” was immediately spirited away once in Stew’s possession.

“We’re hiding the presents in the attic,” he had explained, when he returned dusty and flustered. “If I don’t hide them within a _second_ of being handed a present, the kids _will_ find it, and Christmas is ruined. It’s been explained to me in no uncertain terms.”

“All the terms were certain?” Richard had grinned, and Stew had chuckled and ushered him into his office. 

“I had questions, but they were deemed irrelevant.”

Richard is quite glad his wife doesn’t require things to be locked in the attic lest festive seasons collapse around their very presence. That sounds like a pressure he doesn’t need.

When he drags himself back to the present, he realises Stew is saying something. “What?” he interrupts, laughing softly. “Sorry. I’m not even pretending to listen. And you can’t call me rude, because I’m old, and therefore I’m allowed to be rude. It’s in my nature.”

Stew laughs and starts again. “I was saying, there’s an early Christmas present I want to give you, if you want it now. I know what a patient person you are.”

“Hand it over,” Rich grins, fingers wiggling encouragingly. Stewart obligingly places an envelope in his hand. “Is it a Christmas card? Because that doesn’t count as a present, and suggesting it _does_ counts as mental torture.”

“It’s not a card. Open it,” Stew encourages, and grins broadly when Richard is squinting at a handwritten letter. “It’s from Chris Addison.”

“Why are you acting as a postman for Chris Addison? Tell him to buy a stamp like everyone else.”

“I asked him to write it,” Stew explains. His eyes are bright and sparkling with mischief. “Last time I saw him long enough to have a proper chat. It’s everything he can remember about the cupboards in Edinburgh.”

Richard actually gasps. “No!”

“Yeah,” Stew grins. He always looks younger, when that boyish smile appears. It takes Richard back over twenty years, to when he was seeing it for the first time, a fag between Stew’s lips and a can of something cheap and regrettable in his hand. “A witness statement, if you like. I thought it might get you a bit closer to figuring out who did it.”

“I feel like I’m working a cold case and my department of grizzled detectives just got a break,” Rich laughs. “The hunt is on again! This is the best present I’ve had so far!”

“Have you had any other presents?”

“No,” Rich admits.

“Oh,” chuckles Stewart. He seems particularly tickled by this. “Then I’m glad my one and only present is deemed the best.”

“And the worst, by that logic,” Richard points out with a grin. Stewart’s eyes crinkle as he laughs.

“I suppose so. Merry Christmas, then. Enjoy your sleuthing.”

“Merry Christmas,” Richard laughs in return. 

They do manage to finish the Guinness. Richard wakes up the next day with his lust to understand Fringe-based cupboard destruction rekindled and a sticky, blackened cinnamon stick lying forgotten in his pocket.


End file.
